I Played Violin

I Played Violin

I play my wrists like a violin,
and every vein is a note.
I'll write you a song,
about a boy who died for love.

Everyday he wakes up alone,
without a care in the world.
Never heard a ring from his phone,
he hopes to hear from his girl.

At night he falls asleep crying,
wishing for things to be good.
His heart in his throat dying,
and his words are misunderstood.

The walls painted blood red,
his wrists the paint brush.
Thinks he's better off dead,
for losing his first crush.

The radio plays a sad song,
he plays the beat on his wrist.
Wonders what he's done wrong,
as he clenches his fist.

Visions of her haunt his mind,
leaving him for another guy.
Another love he cannot find,
he's scared by her deadly lie.

The song is near it's end,
and he is slowly going.
The last vein for his friend,
she won't end up knowing.

Violins are now playing,
another song has begun.
His body there laying,
in pools that he sung.